She ran into something.
She whirled and stared at Jason who was standing behind her in the dark but she could see his face was white as a sheet.
He’d heard.
“Jason,” she whispered, horror saturating her.
“Your Mum died when you were eight?” Jason whispered back.
“Jason,” Isabella repeated, her mind unfocused, unable to think of anything else to say.
“You found her?”
It was a shout, a shout filled with sheer agony and it felt like it tore apart her ears and her heart.
She instantly dropped to a knee and grabbed Jason’s hands as she heard quick footfalls on the stairs.
“Jason, listen to me, it was a long time ago,” she whispered urgently.
“You found her,” Jason repeated and Isabella felt Prentice with them but her eyes were riveted on his son.
“A long time ago, Jason.”
“Your Mum’s dead, like mine.”
She scooted closer, squeezing his hands and whispered, “Honey.”
He shook his hands free but he didn’t run away.
He threw his body into hers, nearly taking her off-balance and his arms closed around her so tight it hurt.
It didn’t hurt her body. It hurt her heart.
Isabella gathered him close.
“You know how it feels,” he mumbled into her neck, his voice thick with unshed tears.
She melted into his ten year old grieving boy’s arms.
“I know how it feels, sweetheart,” she whispered, her hands moving on his back.
“You know how it feels,” he repeated.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“Jace, come here, mate,” Prentice said gently from close and Isabella could feel a soft tug pulling Jason’s body from her arms but Jason stayed fix and the tugging stopped.
“Does it still hurt?” Jason asked and Isabella closed her eyes, stopped stroking his back and held onto the boy even tighter.
What she didn’t do was answer.
Jason pulled a little bit away and looked in her eyes.
After what felt like an eternity, he muttered, “It still hurts.”
She should lie. It would make it easier at that moment for both of them.
But he’d eventually know she lied and she didn’t want Jason Cameron to think she was a liar.
Ever.
So she didn’t lie.
Instead, Isabella put her hands to either side of his head, leaned in close and said quietly, “I’m sorry, Jason, but yes, it still hurts.”
He swallowed.
Then he nodded.
Then he pulled away, turned and walked to his room.
Isabella didn’t look at Prentice as she straightened but when she was upright she saw his broad-shouldered back turning into his son’s room.
Slowly, she walked down the stairs. Mikey was standing, face pale as a ghost, in front of the couch.
Isabella wished she felt fury. Instead, she felt nothing but heartache.
When she got close, Mikey asked in a low voice, “Girlie-girl, why didn’t you tell him?”
She shook her head, too weak even to speak.
And besides, what little strength she had she was using to stop herself from weeping.
“Tonight… all my stories… he didn’t…” Mikey stopped and his eyes grew narrow with confusion and sadness. “When you were with him, did you tell him anything?”
She shook her head but this time, she explained.
“When I was here, I wasn’t that girl with sad eyes,” Isabella whispered in a voice that could barely be heard. “When I was with him, I could be free.”
“Oh darling,” Mikey muttered, pulling her in for a close hug and he hugged her for a long time. Then he murmured in her ear, “Walk me to the door, darling.”
She did as she was told.
He hugged her again at the door and then looked her in the eyes.
“You should tell him, you know. Everything.”
It’s too late, way too late, she thought.
But she said nothing.
Mikey gave her a look before he sighed, kissed her temple and walked out the door.
Isabella went back into the great room and stood motionless, waiting for Prentice to return. It felt like years but was more likely five minutes when she saw him walk down the stairs.
He stopped four feet away from her, his beautiful, every-colored eyes locked on her, his face closed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he replied.
“I’m still sorry,” she pushed.
He gave a jerk of his chin but said nothing else.
“Is he okay?” Isabella asked.
“He will be,” Prentice answered.
Isabella slowly closed her eyes.
Then she opened them and repeated, “I’m so sorry.”
Prentice didn’t reply.
Isabella squared her shoulders and licked her lips, waiting for him to say something.
He said nothing. In fact, he looked like he was waiting for her to say something.
She pulled in a deep breath. Then she let it go.
Then she said something.
“I’ll just… head to bed,” she told him.
He didn’t say a word.
She turned to the hall.
“Fifteen months,” Prentice said.
She turned back to Prentice.
“Pardon?” she asked.
“Fifteen months we were together and you didn’t say a fucking word. We spent every minute we could together when you were here and when you weren’t we spent every minute we could talking and you didn’t say a fucking word.” Isabella felt her heart start beating faster but Prentice wasn’t finished. “Did you give a fuck about me at all?”
Bile started climbing up her throat, she ignored it, clenched her hands in fists and simply replied, “Prentice.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You didn’t. If you did, you would have fucking shared your life with me. At least part of it. You didn’t share fuck all. I was in love with you, I asked you to marry me, for fuck’s sake, and I didn’t even know you.”
Her heart stopped beating faster and started slamming against her chest, her nails tore fiercely into her palms and her eyes flew to the stairs.
“Prentice, the children,” she warned.
“Tell me now,” he demanded.
Her eyes jerked to him and her heart stopped.
“What?” she breathed.
“All of it, Isabella. Tell me now.”
“But… why?” she stammered.
He leaned forward at the waist and clipped, “God damn it, tell me now.”
Isabella could take no more.
“Why?” she snapped, throwing her unclenched hand through the air. “What does it matter now?”
But he wasn’t paying attention to her. His eyes had followed her hand.
“Jesus,” he muttered, anger out of his voice, gaze still on her hand. “You’re bleeding.”
She quickly looked at her palm, saw he was right and closed her hand into a fist. As she did this, he advanced so he was close.
Very close.
She tipped her head back to look at him and declared, “It’s nothing.”
His head was bent toward her hand, his fingers closed on her wrist and he said, “Elle, you’re bleeding. Let me look.”
Isabella blinked, feeling the name only he used wash over her like she hadn’t had a bath in decades and that name was warm, clean water.
“Open your hand,” he ordered, his thumb insistently pressing on her fingers, he looked distractedly over his shoulder to the kitchen and asked, “Did you break a glass washing up?”
“It’s nothing,” she repeated.
His head came back around and he lifted her hand between them, thumb unrelenting, trying to open her closed fist.
“Let me see,” he murmured coaxingly.
Panic stricken, she jerked her wrist and he lost hold. When he did, his eyes snapped to hers.